


I Bet They Wish They Really Didn't

by callmejude



Series: Only the Unlucky [3]
Category: A Song of Ice and Fire & Related Fandoms, A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Anal Fingering, Crossdressing, Crossdressing Kink, Damsel In Distress Kink, Dirty Talk, Feminization, Identity Issues, M/M, Oral Sex, Outdoor Sex, Pining, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Sexual Fantasy, Virginity Roleplay, kidnapping fantasy
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-09-16
Updated: 2019-09-16
Packaged: 2020-10-19 20:16:11
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,832
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20663150
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/callmejude/pseuds/callmejude
Summary: It's not quite a game, anymore.





	I Bet They Wish They Really Didn't

Jon scrubs the stains out of Sansa’s dress himself. He steals potash and a washbasin from the laundresses and stays up late into the night scouring the gown until the linen pills and frays. It takes so long and so much work that Jon pulls Theon aside several nights later and, before he can really think better of it, tells him snappishly, “If you make a mess of my dress again, I’ll make you wash it yourself.”

As a threat it doesn’t cow Theon at all. His eyes light up at Jon’s words. 

“Oh, of course, my lady,” he answers, voice slick as he leans forward to whisper in Jon’s ear. “Mustn’t let anyone else know you’ve already given me your virtue. Your lord father would disown you.”

Swallowing, Jon shudders. Theon is clever, always manages to turn Jon’s anger back on him, make a game out of it. 

Theon reaches up to touch his hair. “And so does this mean you’d like to play our game again, little princess?”

Chewing his lip, Jon looks at his feet. He should not give in so quickly. At least should put up a show of resisting Theon’s perverted indulgences. If only not to give Theon the satisfaction. Heat burns from the back of his neck to his scalp from the nickname, and he only looks back up when Theon’s hand falls away from his hair. It’s strange, how different Theon touches him at the mention of their game, but Jon likes it. He wonders if it’s how Theon touches the girls in winter town.

“You did so seem to enjoy it, last time,” Theon purrs, leaning close.

“As did you,” Jon shoots back, flushed pink.

For just a moment, tense and still, Jon sees something flinch over Theon’s face. Not teasing, not proud. Something shy, nervous. Jon chews on the inside of his cheek, feeling as if he’s overstepped some invisible line. Automatically, Jon takes a step backward, trying to reset where they stand, but before the panic can settle in Jon fully, The uncommon look on Theon’s face is gone, and he only grins.

“I’m quite soft for the mewling pleas of women,” Theon whispers. Jon feels long fingers tuck under his chin to hold his gaze. “Ask any of the whores or tavern wenches who beg for me night after night in winter town. It’s a weakness of mine, to give them what they want.”

Jon’s mouth is very dry. He wishes Theon would kiss him. Would Theon do that? Kiss him now, dressed as Jon? If Jon were wearing the dress now, would Theon have already kissed him? Jon’s breath catches in his throat. He’s not sure what he wants, suddenly, what he’s waiting for.

“But make no mistake, my lady,” Theon tells him, and it makes Jon dizzy, to hear Theon call Jon _my lady_ when he’s not dressed as one. “I’m not a valent southern prince who will whisk you to rescue. I am ironborn. I am a prince who takes what I want.”

Jon’s eyes widen, and his heart flutters in his chest. Theon wants him? He swallows hard before trying hesitantly, “You — you’ve rescued Sansa.”

“Aye,” Theon says with a roll of his eyes, “not ever a game I care to play. I’ve no want for little Sansa.”

It swells in Jon’s chest, and he smiles. Theon seems to have realized what he’s said, but other than a silent twitch of his mouth, he says nothing. Jon latches onto his hesitation, and takes a steadying breath.

“Do you — does that mean you want me,” he asks, quick to add with a soft whisper, “Lord Greyjoy?”

Back going rigid, Theon frowns. “I want what you give me freely, Snow. It was easier than charming a brothel girl, to get under your skirt. And I didn’t have to pay for you.”

“I did not seek you out, Lord Greyjoy,” Jon says, repeating the title a little louder, “it was you that found me.”

That staggers Theon, it seems. Actually speechless for once. 

Jon smirks, feeling bold. “It was you who stole me away, Lord Greyjoy,” he adds softly, “did you not?”

Theon blinks. “You know nothing of the ironborn, Snow. Our trifling game isn’t at all like savage raiders carrying brides off from backwater villages. Men claim their salt wives still covered in gore, gagged and bound. If you wish for me to steal you away, then I shall show you.”

Feeling as if he’s won, Jon beams. “And would you? Steal me from the broken tower in the dead of night?”

“Oh, aye,” Theon answers, voice somewhat breathless, “and do you plan to wait patiently for me there? Not much of a capturing, if you come to me with open arms.”

The challenge makes Jon’s heart pick up in his chest. It’s strange, feeling this thrum of excitement while dressed in trousers and a leather doublet. It seems different. Dangerous.

“I’m not fit for your islands,” Jon points out with a twitch of a grin, “I would fight you, should you try to take me away.”

Something in Jon’s words light up Theon’s eyes once more. “Is that so?” he asks, voice like a purr, “I don’t think I believe you, Snow.”

Flushing, Jon starts, “I —”

“I think you’d barely take a running pace if I chased you. I’d catch you quicker than a cat does a fat mouse from the kitchens.” Jon’s eyes go wide, but he doesn’t interrupt. “If you bothered to put up a fight at all it’d be nothing but squirming and griping at me, nothing to wrestle you from my grip as I carried you away. You want it too bad, to deny yourself.” Theon has pushed closer now, and Jon can feel his chest brush his own when Theon draws a breath. “You wouldn’t want to escape, even just for the game of it. Too worried I’d let you run. And you don’t want that, do you, my lady? You want to be caught, trussed. You want me to throw you down in a pile of leaves and have my way with you.”

Jon swallows, cannot master his voice.

“And I _would,_” Theon adds, “have my way with you. Any way I wanted. You’d beg for it, just as you did before. Such a desperate little princess you are, the slightest touch drives you wild, doesn’t it?”

Theon lifts his hand to ghost over Jon’s cheek, and before he can stop himself, Jon nods. He loves the feeling of hands on him, yearns for Theon’s fingers on his face. Theon’s eyes are staring straight through him, and Jon feels a wave of dizziness engulf him.

“You’ll stand in wait for me, in the broken tower, won’t you?” Theon’s voice is sweet, sympathetic, and Jon feels breath against his ear. “Dressed so pretty, just yearning for me to sweep you in my arms and carry you away. Say that you will.”

“Yes.” The answer falls from Jon without his full permission, and the heat of embarrassment spreads down his chest. Clearing his throat he adds, “I will.”

“Brilliant,” Theon says loudly, pushing away from him with a quick tousle of his hair. Jon blinks, slightly dazzled by the touch, and Theon starts away from him before calling over his shoulder, “See that you do, then, Snow.”

And so Jon does. After nightfall he pulls out Sansa’s gown out from its hiding place underneath his bed and bundles it close to his chest. He won’t put it on before making it to the tower, too terrified to run into a guard on his way. He leaves his breeches and tunic in a pile at the foot of the stairs and dons the dress, fussing with the rich foresty skirt a moment. There’s no mirror in the broken tower. Jon wishes he could see himself.

He knows the look of himself in it, by now. The fine, gauzy lace embroidered over the bodice just a touch too tight across his flat, broad chest, the way the pleated skirt fans out before dropping over his feet. It’s easy to imagine that he has a feminine curve to his hips, the way the dress falls over him. He tugs gently at the matching lace that cuffs the sleeves, it’s the only part of the dress that fits poorly enough that Jon wishes he could take a needle to it himself. They are too tight, too high up his arms, the scalloped edges of needlepoint falling just short of where they should. 

Still, the gown serves its purpose, and if he avoids the sight of the tight sleeves and focuses on the flowing green silk and drawn lace bodice, it could almost have been made just for him. Sansa is very talented, making such a lovely summer dress at such a young age. 

Jon watches the stars out the window as he shuffles back and forth from one end of the tower to the other to keep warm, enjoying the gentle sway of the pleated skirts at his bare feet, tying and retying the front laces. Smoothing out the silk and lace on his chest slakes the desire to see himself as a proper highborn lady. Fussing with the gown itself makes him feel like a nervous young maiden awaiting a courter, too anxious for her handmaids to tend to any longer.

The nighttime chill seeps in more quickly through silk and lace without any underclothes. But the gown would not fit if he were to wear a tunic underneath, and Arya not thought to steal away any petticoats for him. To warm his hands, Jon buries them in the green fabric of the skirt. Ceasing his pacing, he looks out the window, squinting to see if he can catch a glimpse of Theon in the yard, carrying a torch as he walks. But he sees nothing, and panic starts to grow in his chest. Is he not coming? Was this all a joke? It wouldn’t surprise Jon, if it were. Theon has always enjoyed humiliating him, it was foolish of Jon to assume he’d not do it any longer, just because he doesn’t when they play this game. Perhaps it was all a ruse, in the end. Forcing Jon to stay out in the cold dressed in his little sister’s silky gown. Lady Catelyn would order him banished from the castle the moment she saw such a thing.

Terror grips him at the thought, and Jon snatches up handfuls of his skirt, feet freezing as he marches down the cool stoney steps, feeling like the world's greatest fool. It’s all been a lie, from the very beginning. Theon is trying to get him sent to the Wall as a deviant.

“Not very patient, are we, little princess?”

Jon’s heart leaps into his throat. He keeps his head down and blinks his sudden tears away. Only swallows and looks up to see him at the foot of the stairs.

Theon grins, white teeth visible even in the dim moonlight. “Promised me with all your sweet little heart that you’d sit and be patient, but you give me barely the time to steal a horse from the stables. Are you always so willful?”

As Theon’s words sink in, Jon makes a face, scoffing to hide his breathlessness. 

“You didn’t _steal a —_” Jon falters as Theon starts up the step, his eyes predatory; pinned to him.

“Aye, did so,” Theon insists when Jon doesn’t finish, his own feet careful on the stairs, “I’m ironborn, little princess. I take what I want.” The last word leaves his mouth as he reaches Jon on the steps, and takes hold of Jon’s wrist as if to prove his point. “Come now. I’ll show you.”

Expecting to be led down the stairs, Jon yelps when Theon bends and tucks an arm under Jon’s knees, sweeping him up in his arms. Startled, Jon kicks a little, but Theon only grins at the pathetic struggle and holds him tight to his chest.

“Don’t wriggle too much, my lady,” Theon tells him, voice a soft drawl in Jon’s ear. “You don’t want to fall.”

“You’ll drop me!”

“Never,” Theon assures, lips brushing against Jon’s jaw. It sends a spike down Jon’s spine, sparking his nerves awake. He stills as he takes a shaking breath, and Theon nuzzles against his temple. “Just hold tight, my lady.”

Wrapping his arms around Theon’s neck, Jon stills and lets Theon carry him down the spiral steps. It’s such a soft, careful thing, that for a moment Jon forgets that it's all a game, forgets that he is not some southern princess that Theon hopes to steal away. Just for a breath, he is not the bastard Jon Snow but instead the eldest daughter of House Stark — but then Theon carries Jon past his pile of discarded clothes nestled at the foot of the stairs, and the thought is lost in a blink. 

With a heavy swallow, Jon drops his head onto Theon’s shoulder and pretends the sudden realization doesn’t devastate him; pretends he’d never let himself forget. He closes his eyes and listens to Theon breathe as he shuffles Jon in his arms and they make their way out into the cool night air of the yard.

“Alright, my lady,” Theon says, jarring Jon from his thoughts as he sets his feet in the dewy grass, “up you get.”

Blinking, Jon looks up to see Robb’s favourite palfrey, standing in wait just outside the tower, tacked and ready. 

“I — Theon —” He considers arguing. Something about the mare makes this real, unsafe. Instead, he only looks down at his skirts and points out dumbly, “I can’t ride like this.”

“Of course you can, my lady. A fine girl like you must’ve been taught.” Theon is beaming at him. “It’s no matter, I suppose. I’ll be here to keep you steady. Come on.”

He helps Jon onto the horse with a bit of a shove before climbing on after him. Crowded together in the saddle, Theon swings Jon sideways so that his legs swing over the shoulder of the horse, holds him tight between his knees . Breath fogging on the night hair, the palfrey stamps.

“Hold on tight to me then, my lady, or I’ll have to bind your wrists and ankles and tie you to the saddle.”

It should sound like a threat, but Jon shivers as he adjusts himself over the pommel, legs dangling helpless over the animal’s side. Theon’s arms circle around him, holding the reins tight in one hand and holding Jon tight with the other. Lips brush against Jon’s ear, soft, and send a chill over Jon’s skin.

“Ready now, little princess?”

Jon looks up, struck by the look of Theon bathed in moonlight. Eyes bright, grin smug. Jon swallows, robbed of thought for a moment.

Theon laughs. “Aye, alright,” he says, giving Jon’s side a squeeze. “Hold tight.”

Nudging his heels into the flanks of Robb’s horse, they start at a quick trot toward the godswood.

The lurch of the horse makes Jon’s heart leap, unlike how he’s ever sat on the back of a mount before, with no control whatsoever. It is disturbing, more unfamiliar than putting on a gown has ever been. He feels like he will slip off any moment. Theon is a skilled rider, Jon knows, but the position is so foriegn and startling that Jon grips tight to the animal’s mane like a child on a pony. Without stirrups or saddle to balance himself on, the gait is bouncy, downright undignified, and Jon has to lean hard against Theon to assure that he does not slip off.

On horseback, they ride through the yard toward the godswood. Passing close by the guardsmen’s hall, Jon turns his face into Theon’s chest, mortified at the thought of being seen by a man turning in from a shift. He feels Theon chuckle through his chest, and blushes.

They slip through the gate unnoticed. Theon urges his mount no faster than an amble; the godswood is dense and thickly treed, without room for an open gallop in the full light of day, less so by moonlight. By night, the wild forest of the godswood is unrecognizable, dense and inky blue-black, unlit by torch or brazer. Jon can hardly tell where they are or where they are going, side-faced in the saddle this way, trunks and gnarly low branches and draping moss all flickering and dancing as the palfrey whisks them between the trees. 

In a low moss-carpeted hollow between two tall pines, Theon circles the mount and eases her to a walk. Jon’s grip loosens as Theon slows the horse to a stop.

“There now. Not so bad, was it?” Theon asks with a grin as he dismounts. Jon balks slightly at the loss of Theon’s hold, but Theon gives his leg a pat as he takes the reins over the horse's head. “Sit tight, little princess.”

Jon is still as Theon leads the horse to a tree and ties the reins to the branch. Theon pats the animal’s neck before turning his attention back to Jon, holding out his arms. 

“I’ve got you, my lady,” Theon says with a tilt of his head, “hop down, I’ll catch you.”

Jon hesitates a moment, feeling ungainly, worried he might trip or tear his skirt, but Theon only smirks expectantly until Jon hops off the horse’s back. Theon catches him easily, helping Jon to stand in the cold, soft humus at their feet.

For the first time, Theon seems to notice Jon is barefoot. “Have you not any shoes, my lady? How do you expect to run from me?”

Jon blinks. “Run?”

“Aye, as you said. You want to run,” Theon reminds him with a smirk, “and that I would give chase. Pursue you through the woods high and low. Though I suppose I knew better than to think that the truth.”

“No, I didn’t lie,” Jon pouts quietly. “I've no shoes fit for a gown. And there’s no point in running from you, now. You took long enough already, I was ready to give up on waiting when you arrived.”

Throwing his head back, Theon laughs. It makes Jon warm, and he smiles up at him.

“Well then,” Theon mutters, mostly to himself as he hoists Jon into his arms. “Since I have you captured then, suppose I’ll carry you off, myself.”

Jon yelps as Theon swings an arm under his knees and scoops him up. Again, his feet kick freely in the air and he is helpless about where they're headed. Jon remembers the first time, the thrill that pulsed through him at the friction and heat of their bodies against each other, the change in angle as Theon kissed him. It had been so much so suddenly that even the memory makes Jon lightheaded. 

Theon grins at him, as if he knows.

They don’t go far before Jon is unceremoniously dropped into a mossy patch of fallen pine needles. Jon squeaks, and Theon chuckles as he unclasps his doublet, tosses it aside, and pulls his tunic over his head. From his back, Jon watches, fidgeting slightly with the lace on his sleeve.

Unlacing his breeches, Theon gives him a wink as he unclasps the leather oil from his belt, uncorking it with his teeth. 

“You look disappointed, my lady,” Theon says offhandedly as he smears oil over his fingers. “Perhaps you were expecting more ceremony?”

Jon doesn’t feel disappointed. He shakes his head.

“No?” Theon quirks an eyebrow, letting his breeches slip low on his hips. 

Jon’s eyes follow the slope of him, the tantalizing brink, and the back of his neck turning warm when he hears Theon laugh.

Dropping to his knees, Theon crawls forward overtop of Jon, forcing him back onto his elbows, eyes wide as Theon grins down at him. “I suppose it’s not fair to rob you of your courtly romance when it’s so easy to make you swoon.”

Feeling a pang of indignance, Jon opens his mouth to ask what Theon means, but Theon only bows forward and captures Jon’s mouth in his own. Heart fluttering, Jon doesn’t pull away, and Theon cups his face, tilting his head back to deepen the kiss with an easy swipe of his tongue, leading Jon’s mouth open to taste him until Jon’s head swims.

Jon is lost by the time Theon breaks the kiss, peppering gentle kisses down Jon’s neck, and trailing his fingers over the lacey bodice of Jon’s gown, as if there were breasts beneath to fondle. It’s so gentle and soft that Jon’s thoughts fade only to the sensations on his skin. Theon’s mouth on his throat, the silk on his bare legs, the cold moss between his toes.

“See there,” Theon tells him in a honeyed voice, slick fingers tipping back Jon’s chin, “there's no trick to it. Such a simple thing, to make you yearn. To make you _want_.” 

Mouth dry, Jon swallows. It’s embarrassing, just how right he is. Something is daunting about the way Theon’s eyes glitter when they focus on Jon in the dark.

“If I were to turn away now, you’d beg and plead me not to stop, wouldn’t you? Just a few sweet kisses and already there’s fire in your blood.”

Jon releases a loud breath, fingers finding Theon’s curls and twisting, firm. He holds him tight by the hair, not giving him the chance to flee. Jon feels more raw and vulnerable now than he’s ever felt, moonlight casting them both in such soft blue light. He feels elegant, sweet; like something Theon wants. Theon has always wanted such pretty things.

Jon is too shy to ask for it, ashamed at his own desperation, but the memory of Theon calling him pretty while Jon stood before him in this dress turns him soft, and Jon presses against Theon’s touch with a sigh. Perhaps Theon will say it again. He wants to hear it more than anything.

“This is what you want, isn’t it?” Theon hisses as Jon’s back slams hard against the mulch among the trees. “Dainty thing that you are, all you dreamed of was for someone to take it from you.”

Shuddering, Jon nods. “Yes —”

“Nothing left to take though, any longer,” Theon purrs, falling astride him, nipping at Jon’s ear. “You’ve already given it to me. And so freely, as if it were always mine.”

“It was,” Jon admits breathlessly, hand griping Theon’s hair. Pulling back from him, Theon looks stunned for a moment, and Jon flushes, embarrassed. In a rush, he adds, “Pretend for — pretend for me, please. I’ll — I’ll pretend, too. Pretend that I'm — still a maid. Please —”

A shiver jerks through Theon hard enough that Jon can feel it in his own nerves, buzzing and hot. The weight of Theon's body presses him to the earth.

Nesting fingers in his hair, Jon babbles, “Please be, my lord — be gentle with me, I —”

“Oh,” Theon groans, leaning forward to press Jon back into the dirt as one hand creeps up the twisted silk skirt. “Poor little thing, are you frightened?”

Jon squirms, and Theon’s grip on him tightens. “_Yes._”

Theon nuzzles into Jon’s neck, breathing deep. “You’re lucky I came across you before any of my raiders, then,” he groans against Jon’s skin, and the wet breath at his throat turns Jon mewling, helpless. “They are all brutes. Savage and hard, they would break you hard and leave you bleeding. I, at least, will make it — good for you.”

Theon’s hand presses between Jon’s legs, fingers slick and warm as they stroke over sensitive skin. 

“Look at you, already ready and desperate to have me inside you. How often have you put a hand between your legs at the thought of a handsome prince stealing you from your warm bed?”

Whimpering, Jon admits softly, “I — I don’t know how.”

Theon growls low enough that Jon feels it rumble deep in the pit of his own stomach. Theon’s hand hesitates, and Jon lets out a quiet whine, when the touch pulls away. Voice hoarse, Theon whispers, “Would you like me to show you?”

He’s not sure what Theon means by that, but Jon nods anyway.

With a smile, Theon takes hold of Jon’s wrist. “Here.”

Jon watches shocked as Theon brings Jon’s fingers to his lips and draws them into his mouth.

Their eyes meet, less than arm's length apart. Theon’s eyes are bright and unblinking, focused on Jon’s face. Jon’s skin prickles at the sensation of Theon’s slick, warm tongue dragging over his knuckles, tickling from his scalp to his toes.

His fingers are slick with spit as Theon slides his mouth away, and Jon gasps at the way cool air feels now against his skin. He’s somehow burning hot and freezing all at once, and the trees around them seem to dance and sway as he catches his breath.

“Like this, little princess.” Guiding Jon’s slickened hand away, Theon uses his other hand to hoist Jon forward, sitting up. “Here, I’ll — I’ll help you.”

Jon is helpless to do as he says, letting Theon lead Jon into his lap and rest his back against Theon’s chest. Theon’s body is warm, and Jon can feel it throbbing with his heartbeat as he presses back into his hold.

“What do you think of when you’re all alone at night, my lady?” Theon whispers into his hair. With one hand he pushes the wide green pleats aside as he guides Jon’s hand down between his legs with the other. “Do you hope your prince will be gentle? Soft and sweet like the songs all promise?”

Jon startles when he feels his own hand brush against his skin, and all words leave his mind. Theon’s hand is firm, leading, and his fingers circle wet and cool against the sensitive stretch of flesh between his legs.

“No, I don’t think that’s it at all,” Theon tells him when Jon doesn’t answer. “Not after the way you’ve clung to me. I think you may want to be ravaged as a whore with a handful of coin.”

Fingers breech Jon and he hisses out a breath, skin buzzing with a new sensation, setting him alight. It’s strange to feel it from both sides, his own fingers touching inside himself. Jon’s head falls back against Theon’s shoulder, and he moans.

“Is that it, my lady,” Theon whispers, lips close against Jon’s ear as he urges Jon’s fingers further inside him. “Your father has always kept you so close, so guarded, always the — the perfect daughter. A wolf tamed in a garden. The songs — bore you, don’t they? It’s too dull to bear. You wish to be stolen, taken in the shadows.”

Hazy, Jon nods. The nighttime sounds of the godswood blur and fade to nothing, Theon’s voice the only clear sound as Jon starts to move his hand in and out of himself without guidance, letting Theon’s grip fall away. Theon wraps his arms tight around him, but Jon lets himself see the image he’s spinning, Theon lurking in through his window as the north is overrun with ironborn pillagers.

“Always so good for your lord father,” Theon purrs. Jon feels Theon’s tongue snake out to taste the skin below his jaw. “Far too much for a young princess to handle, all on her own.”

Nodding, Jon turns his face into Theon’s neck as his hand begins to move in earnest, his fingers pushing into him hard enough that light bursts in front of his eyes. “Theon —”

“Gods, but you’re hungry for it,” Theon says with a smug little cough. “Far too green to help yourself, aren’t you?”

Any hesitance Jon may have felt has burned away before he can think to cling to it. He nods, head craned back as he shifts in Theon’s lap to reach further. His fingers only just reach a nerve inside him, sending a tingling hum through his whole body. 

Shameless, Jon’s mouth falls open. “Feels — gods, it feels good.”

“You look so…” Theon’s voice catches, and his words fade. 

Jon hears nothing, for a moment, other than the erratic breathing in his ear. Sudden but gentle, new fingers push into Jon, slicker and longer than his own, and Jon releases a loud, shivering groan. Theon’s fingers reach easily, turning Jon’s insides to water in an instant. Stars blink in and out of Jon’s vision, and he ruts helplessly against the pressure inside him. It’s so much at once, Jon thinks he may burn away to nothing if he cannot catch his breath.

“Gods, look at you,” Theon says then, voice tight. “Sweet little thing, you’ve never — never known such pleasure, have you?”

“Theon —”

“What do you — think of, little princess? What is it that you — that you want, when torn open this way?”

“Take me,” Jon gasps, eyes flying open to see Theon’s face ravenous and desperate as he feels, himself. “Gods, take me, I — I can’t stand it —”

“Oh shh,” Theon breathes against Jon’s temple, fingers sliding against Jon’s own inside him, driving Jon mad. “Can’t you? Just — just a little longer. Tell me. Green as you are, you must have — such fantasies.”

Helpless, Jon spreads his legs obscenely, holding himself open as Theon’s fingers press deeper, dragging Jon’s own hand farther inside himself. He feels stretched wide enough to be taken by two at once, and his head spins immediately with the thought.

“Would you — want me for — for yourself, Lord Greyjoy?” Jon asks desperately, tears prickling the corners of his eyes as he thrusts hard against their fingers. “Perhaps see me being — being taken by another. Two — two. More.”

Theon shifts behind him, and Jon can feel the hard line of his cock pushing just under the silk pleats of Jon’s dress. Encouraged, Jon lets the fantasy unfold, talking in a breathless rush as he surrenders to the pleasure pressing inside him.

“Said I was — was lucky you found me. S’true. Your raiders — raiders had found me first but —” The pleasure is turning Jon mindless, losing his words. He groans and tries, “you want — want me…”

“Oh, aye,” Theon’s voice is low, burning. His wrist twists in a way that causes a burst of heat up Jon’s spine. “You wish for me to rescue you, little princess?”

“Y — _yes,_” Jon begs, tearing at Theon’s hair with his free hand. As he moves his hips now he can feel Theon underneath his skirts, hard and close. It drives him mad, eyes rolling back as he tries to rut against the pressure inside him and Theon’s lap at once. “Please — Lord Greyjoy, they’d — they’d only hurt me, if they reached me. I want —”

“Shh,” Theon whispers, holding Jon tight to his chest as he starts to rut himself against Jon’s hip. “I’ve — I’ve got you now, sweetling. I am their lord and captain, none of them shall touch you. None would dare. You are mine now. Keep you safe. All — all to myself.”

“Please,” Jon cries out as Theon’s fingers split him open with such delicate ease, “Please, take me as — as your prize. I can’t — can’t stand it. Gods, please…”

Theon’s fingers fall free of him, and he takes hold of Jon’s wrist to pull his own hand away. Jon keens and squirms in Theon’s lap, and Theon only shushes him as he shoves Jon’s skirts out of the way, slicking himself with more oil. 

“Gods,” Theon rattles, chest heaving as he takes hold of Jon by his hips. “Sweet little maid turned to such a — needy beast at the mere — promise of my cock,”

“I — I want to be — your prize,” Jon whines, shivering at the feel of Theon’s slick cock breeching him, slow and solid. He holds tight to Theon’s hair as Theon sinks Jon onto him, and lights shiver in front of his eyes as if the world is cast by a waning flame. “Please — I’m… I’m of the North, I am noble born, take me and I —”

Jon isn’t quite sure what he’s saying any longer, but somehow Theon seems to, letting a breathless huff stir in Jon’s hair. A shiver rolls through them, and Jon cannot tell to which of them it belonged.

“Aye, they meant to make me spoils of their war, but it seems I’ve only taken you as my own spoils now, haven’t I, little princess? Right under your northern lord father’s nose. Doesn’t matter how you like my islands, you’ll learn to take to it well as any thrall.”

“Yes,” Jon begs mindlessly, fucking into Theon’s lap. The faster he moves the more Theon talks. All he wants is to hear Theon talk. “Yes, take me away —”

“Some struggle you put up, my lady,” Theon purrs, the palm of his hand soft and gentle against Jon’s cheek. “You’re — already pleading for the very thing you said you’d fight against.”

Jon whimpers, and Theon thrusts forward, rocking Jon over his lap hard enough to make his head spin. 

“You tell yourself it isn’t what you want, but you’ve — melted like butter into my hands at the chance to be my salt wife.”

Jon’s vision swims, jaw falling open as Theon’s hands hold Jon’s hips in place, sturdy and strong. He could almost be a woman, this way. Delicate and small in Theon’s grip.

“Please,” Jon whispers, throwing his arms around Theon’s neck, “please, I want it.”

“Gods, but you’re desperate,” Theon growls against his jaw. “If I’d taken the North in a raid you would’ve — thrown yourself into my bed. Clever of you, that, secure the lord’s favour for yourself. And I’d not even — pay for your company.”

Jon groans, burying his face into Theon’s neck. Breathing in the smell of him, Jon babbles, “Give — give you everything.”

“Aye, that you will,” Theon agrees. He runs a hand through Jon’s hair, pulling back just far enough to look Jon in the eye. “Already spread your legs and fell down on your — back for me. Your father would be so terribly ashamed of you. Ruined.”

The image engulfs Jon’s senses, on his knees in this soiled, stolen dress, pleading with his father to banish him to the Iron Islands. Dressed like a whore before the whole of the castle, his father would have no choice but to send away his deviant bastard. 

Jon’s mouth falls open, and Theon’s fingers hold his jaw, thumb rolling over his bottom lip.

“Gods, and you want it.” His voice is so tender; gentle, even breathless as it is. “You’d — die for it.”

“Y — yes,” Jon manages, eyes rolling back. He can’t breathe. The stars overhead have faded to nothing. He thinks perhaps he may be dying right now.

Letting out a loud, violent grunt, Theon throws him back, slamming back into Jon with so much force Jon lets out a dry scream, back arching off the moss.

“Beg it of me, Jon,” Theon snarls, pinning Jon back into the dirt. 

Hearing his name makes Jon’s mind fill with snow, air too tight to breathe. He wants Jon. Not a princess, not a lady. He wants _Jon._

Theon is wild overtop him, fucking into him hard enough that Jon feels pain; twigs and stones grinding into his back, leaves twisted in his hair, Theon’s grip fierce on his wrists, ravaged raw between his legs. All he can manage is to gasp, squirming helplessly against the weight of Theon’s body. It’s better than anything he’s ever known.

“Such a desperate thing,” Theon pants, “have you — lost your tongue already? I want — to hear you beg me.”

Jon cries out, mind racing and foggy. “Please Lord Greyjoy, make me — make me your salt wife. Take me away. I’ll make — make you sons and warm your bed. Just don’t — don’t stop…”

“I’ve broken you easy as a colt,” Theon growls, “look at you. Will you think — of anything other than my cock now? _Beg me._”

Shaking his head, Jon’s entire body burns hot with humiliation. He’d rather die than have this stop. 

“Just you, just this —” Jon is trembling. Theon wants to hear him beg, but Jon’s not sure what for. “Please,” he keens, near out of his mind, and begs for the first thing he can think to want. “Please, am I pretty? Tell — tell me I —” 

Tears spill down from the corners of his eyes now. He feels as if he’s falling away to ash. Theon opens his mouth, but now that Jon has started he can’t seem to stop, surging back against Theon with everything he has. 

“Please, I’ll — I’ll be a good wife. Good mother. Please.”

“Yes — _yes,_” Theon snarls, losing what little control he’s had. Teeth graze his throat, animalistic, but Theon’s mouth runs too much for him to bite down. “Such a pretty little wife you’ll — make, my lady. No one will even remember the look of you this way once you — once you start to make me sons. The moment — one is born I’ll just pump you with another. You’ll not ever — see the light of day again without being swollen with my seed.”

One of Theon’s hands finds Jon’s stomach, flat as ever, pulling the silk of the dress tight with every frantic breath. He pushes down, and Jon’s free hand snatches a fistful of Theon’s hair. Helpless, Jon prays for the gods to change him, just inside. If he could carry a child, it could be real. Theon would keep him like this, if only he could. The thought destroys him, and Jon feels his throat pull tight.

“Please, Lord Greyjoy,” Jon sobs, thrashing against Theon’s hold on him. He’s on fire. He’s burning alive, from the inside out. He won’t live past this, he knows he won’t. “Oh, please Lord Greyjoy, tell — tell me… tell me that I’m yours, tell me that you love me. Please —”

“_Fuck,_ Jon —”

Voice cutting silent, Theon shudders. Heat drives up Jon’s spine, burning and thick and his body goes rigid. Theon’s fingers dig hard into Jon’s sleeve, fingernails sharp on his wrist. Jon feels as if he’s floating, falling, drowning. He feels Theon’s hips jerk, chasing his release before dropping onto his elbows, his face nuzzling into the crook of Jon’s neck.

He says nothing, panting wet against Jon’s throat. Choking, Jon whines, twisting against Theon’s chest. He’s riding the edge of bursting into flame, just short of it.

“Theon,” he begs, “_please —_”

Something is different. The air is tense. Jon feels tears falling into his hair. He’s ruined it, it’s all wrong now. What has he done?

“I’m — I’m sorry —” Jon starts. 

He remembers before, apologizing without understanding why, Theon insisting there was no need. Theon says nothing now. He says nothing, but pulls his face back from where he’s tucked against Jon’s throat and looks down at him. In his chest, Jon’s heart quakes. He is beautiful and wild, and Jon wants to give him everything.

“I — I’m sorry,” Jon repeats. If he could just get Theon to say something, they could pretend it never happened. “Please, I —”

Theon doesn’t speak, but he bows close to take Jon’s mouth gently in his own, silencing him. Something crumbles apart in Jon’s chest at the tenderness, and he gasps hard against a sob that tears through him. Fingers are gentle on Jon’s chin, leading him back, sweeping him into the kiss until he’s lost to it, hands knotted in Theon’s hair to steady himself. He doesn’t feel it when Theon’s hand drifts away from his face, but the sudden grip around Jon’s cock causes light to burst behind his eyes. He jerks, moans, desperate to keep the kiss, but his jaw falls slack as Theon’s hand starts to move on him.

For a moment, their eyes meet in the dark, pronounced and momentous and too much for Jon to take. He can’t breathe, can’t bear to look at Theon. He’s going to shatter to nothing.

Before Jon can master himself, Theon ducks away from view, pushing Jon’s skirts up farther, exposing Jon’s skin to the cold night air before Theon slides his mouth over Jon’s cock.

“Theon —!”

It’s warm and wet and solid, and Jon scrambles for purchase, falling apart. Theon’s mouth is like hot silk, tongue dragging over Jon’s skin. He’s never known this feeling — so much, so suddenly, all at once. The skirt fanned out at his waist is hot enough to burn. His fingers dig hard into Theon’s scalp. He feels Theon’s throat pull tight, feels the reflex at the back of his throat. Jon wishes he could pull away, but his hips won’t slow, straining when Theon’s palms press Jon’s hips down into the dirt.

“Oh gods, _Theon —_”

Jon’s body clenches hard before abruptly unspooling. The air around them turns to light, the night sky suddenly burning white as Jon’s whole body seems to fade. Distantly, he hears Theon pull off of him with a soft choking sound. Jon’s limbs are like wet sand as he watches the stars blink back into his vision. He hears Theon spit into the moss, and then nothing. 

Silence hangs heavy between them now, and Jon swallows to stifle his panic. He’s afraid to sit up, to see Theon’s face now, in his clarity.

Tense, Jon finally hoists himself stiffly onto his elbows, easing his eyes open from a squint. But Theon is not kneeling in front of him when Jon opens his eyes. He’s moved away as if to give Jon space, seated in the moss, turned away from Jon entirely.

Swallowing, Jon wipes at his eyes. It’s ruined now, Jon’s foolishness has destroyed whatever fragile thing has grown between them. Tears are burning the inside of his throat, and Jon gags, trying to take a steadying breath.

“Th — Theon?”

Shoulders flinching, Theon turns his head. He’s only just too far to see his expression in the dim light, and so Jon eases closer, shuffling on his hands and knees to meet Theon where he’s sitting.

Without looking back at Jon, Theon takes hold of his own chin and stretches it with a yawn. Voice hoarse, he huffs with an air of teasing, “That was a little harder than the girls have made it look.”

It’s the first thing Theon has said it what feels like hours. Jon is so jarred by the sound of his voice that it takes him a moment to understand what the words mean.

“Have...” 

The question sticks behind Jon’s teeth before he can finish asking it. Theon does not want to be asked if he has done this before. Not when the answer is no, not when Jon is the first. Something bright flutters in Jon’s chest, and ducking his head away from Theon’s line of sight, he smiles. Just for a moment.

The two of them sit in the dark quiet for a moment, and the fear that had swallowed Jon earlier starts to fade away.

Perhaps he is not the only one who is frightened.

“Theon?”

Theon doesn’t respond, and does not look at him. The avoidance doesn’t clench Jon’s heart as it had just a moment ago. He reaches for Theon’s hand and wraps his fingers tight around his palm. Theon is still at first, before folding his hand over Jon’s. Again, the quiet falls between them.

“Thank you, Theon.”

A snort. Jon chances a look in his direction to see eyes on him now. “Aye, for what?”

“For all of this. For being this... kind.”

Theon’s eyes fall away from him. “Oh.”

Jon swallows. For just a moment, the sadness swells in him once more, knowing that he could never give Theon a son, a child of noble birth. Jon will never take a noble name, never be whisked away to find such purpose in him as that. He squeezes Theon’s hand, careful to hold back his own tears, just for now.

“May I hold you?”

Blinking, Theon stares at him. “What?”

Chewing on his lip, Jon covers quickly, “I’m cold. I’d like to hold you, if you don’t mind.”

Theon doesn’t answer, but drops his arm, shuffling slightly to give Jon the space to scoot in closer to him. Jon crawls into Theon’s lap, heart tripping in his chest as he curls into the warmth radiating from Theon’s body. He feels Theon go rigid underneath him, but he does not push Jon away. When Jon settles against his chest, Theon lets an arm rest against Jon’s back.

“Thank you,” Jon repeats, kissing Theon’s neck. “For everything, truly. Is — is there anything more you want? I could… I could give it to you.” Pressed into the nook of Theon’s shoulder, Jon holds his breath before adding unsurely, “Lord Greyjoy.”

For an instant, the arm slung over Jon’s spine pulls tighter. He feels more than hears Theon swallow hard before letting out a scoff.

“You’re insatiable.”

Jon smiles, though he knows Theon cannot see. “They say such things of bastards.”

Theon doesn’t respond to that, and for a moment, Jon thinks he’s done something wrong. He doesn’t move. Neither does Theon, for a time. They haven’t looked at each other in what feels like hours.

“I’ve never heard anyone speak such rude things of princesses,” Theon says at last.

The back of Jon’s neck feels hot. His hands clench tight in Theon’s tunic. He wishes he could see the look on Theon’s face, but he’s too afraid to move, to break whatever spell has settled between them, this quiet, mutual mending of whatever it is Jon had broken. Breath shivering, he tries, “You’ve never claimed to be a gentle prince.”

When Theon snorts at that, his shoulders seem to relax. “Aye,” he says in a voice that sounds like his smile, “that I’m not.”

But he is, Jon knows. Perhaps knows better than Theon does himself. Only a tender man would give Jon what he wants as freely as Theon does. A man as hard as the Iron Islands to be would not have kissed him so sweetly when calling him princess, would have only teased Jon’s desires once he learned of them. Theon has only ever indulged him the way a gentle courtly prince would.

But Theon does not need to hear that now, and so Jon stays quiet.

“If you’re so cold we should get back to the castle,” Theon says after Jon doesn’t say anything back to him. “You’ll catch your death in nothing but that silk and bare feet.”

It isn’t what he had asked for, half-mad and desperate, but it settles in Jon’s heart the same. Smiling, Jon nods, but doesn’t move. Theon doesn’t ask him to, hoisting himself onto his feet with Jon still wrapped around him.

“C’mon, my lady,” Theon says with only a slight tease to his voice, “off we go, then.”

As they walk back to where Theon tied Robb’s horse, Jon reaches again for Theon’s hand. 

Wordlessly, Theon takes it.

**Author's Note:**

> title is (once again) from "Let's Fall in Love" by Mother Mother
> 
> (also I switched the title of the second and third part 'cause I hadn't expected to write a third part so that's the title I planned to end it on lmao.)


End file.
